You Can't Spell 'Art' Without 'Moriarty'
by sherlockfic
Summary: This is a response to the challenge on Dreamwidth's Sherlock Flashfic - The Case of the Underground...  I decided to go into a bad guy's head and see what he was thinking when he was doing his bad guy thing.  Spoilers for 'The Great Game'


**This is a response to the challenge on Dreamwidth's Sherlock Flashfic - The Case of the Underground... I decided to go into a bad guy's head and see what he was thinking when he was doing his bad guy thing. **

**Spoilers for 'The Great Game'**

**Disclaimer: The BBC owns this version of _Sherlock_ and it's characters. I'm just taking them out for a spin...**

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><p><strong><em>The Case of The Underground:<em>**

**_You Can't Spell ' Moriarty ' Without 'Art'_**

He waited for the gunshots to fade away into mere echoes of better times gone by. Then he listened to the shouting. It was so pleasant.

Back to work.

He raked the lock as deftly as a locksmith. Opening the door, his nose twitched at the dampness of the room. He could smell the mold. Forcing back a sneeze, he entered, a smirk twisting his lips; he couldn't help it. He never could.

His eyes swept the hovel quickly. Peeling, god-awful wallpaper, wettish carpeting and a mirror so dirty it reflected vague shadows. A haze of muted, artificial light crept in, only magnifying the dust hanging in the air. A neglected fireplace stood in the far wall, somehow adding a chill to the room despite its design to the contrary.

He squinted. Yes…This was the spot. In front of the fireplace. He removed the trainers from the plastic bag and set them down. He stood back and examined their positioning.

Hmm…They were too symmetrical with the room. _He_ would walk in and see it in line with the fireplace and window. It was too perfect and that wouldn't do at all.

This was an art and the perfection of art was in its imperfections.

Tilting his head, he squinted again and shuffled to his left. He turned, just so.

Bending down, he reached for the shoes, placing them at an angle, facing a particularly bad patch of wall between the mirror and fireplace.

Standing back to survey his handiwork, he clapped his gloved hands and cheered in silence. He didn't want them to hear him.

This was it.

_He_ could circle the room, the trainers in the center, seeming deadly because they looked so innocent.

They weren't innocent. They'd housed that stupid boy who laughed at him.

Allowing himself a quiet chuckle at the shoes, he bent down again and pulled at the laces.

They were the original laces – well, the fourth pair but the owner had used them. Touched them.

Of course he touched them. That was the point. He touched them with the poison. He wondered if the boy laughed as he untied these laces, one of the last things he ever did.

It had been so easy, too easy, he would later learn. Poison the cream. Wait for the death. When he got away with it, he thought he'd been a little bit lucky but he quickly realized that he was smart. Smarter than the school, smarter than the police, smarter than _everyone_.

At first it was exhilarating but that quickly wore out. He _kept_ getting away with it. He began to ask himself, 'What was the point?'

That's when he remembered the other boy. The one with the annoying, over-protective, over-involved, older brother. _He_ knew the boy had been murdered but no one believed him.

Stupid school. Stupid police. Stupid everyone.

Yes, that was it. The laces were perfect now.

He looked him up, this boy-who-knew. It didn't take long to find him.

Sherlock.

Holmes.

How he could forget a name like that. The weird boy nobody liked. Except the bullies. The bullies liked him a lot but they wasted their chance. They beat him up and stole his lunch. His money. Once, his shoes.

Wasted.

With brain-power such as Sherlock Holmes', they missed their chance to really have fun with him.

Then again, they were bullies. Bullies were stupid.

Sherlock.

Holmes.

He would walk into this disgusting room and spot the shoes immediately. Placed in the middle of the floor.

Waiting.

Waiting for Sherlock Holmes.

Would he notice the laces? The age? The care the owner gave them? The care he'd given them these last twenty years?

Would Sherlock Holmes figure out who belonged to these shoes?

Sherlock.

Holmes.

He blinked, and for an instant, it just looked like…shoes…in a room.

Was he giving the man too much credit? Perhaps. He sometimes let his excitement get the better of him. Perhaps his boredom inflated his belief in this man's ability to match wits with him.

Sherlock.

Holmes.

He'd have to check up on him. He'd already infiltrated St Bart's. God knows he watched enough _Glee_ to establish his cover as the boyfriend. That was his way in. Attack the target by innocently sitting next to one of his friends, watching _Glee_ of all things. (Sometimes he thought he deserved a medal.)

Molly liked Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes used Molly to get what he wanted. But Sherlock Holmes never went to Molly's house. He never met Toby. He'd let that cat curl on his lap while Molly curled under his chin. He could have snapped her neck. Poisoned her coffee. Set fire to her bed. He could have done anything. But he didn't…

What could be more chilling than that?

Sherlock.

Holmes.

He _would_ have to check up on him, now was the time. When he studied the shoes.

Ah! He could go gay. If he could trick the master of deduction into seeing exactly what he wanted him to see, it would prove he was master of nothing but obviousness.

Moving stealthily to the dingy mirror, he wiped two layers of dirt from it. He could see himself now. He'd get his eyelashes tinted. Put a little gel in his hair. Show a bit of underwear…

Ooooh…He would leave _him_ his number. His real number – as _he_ examined the shoes and tried to figure out who the mad bomber was, he would walk right in and give _him_ his number…Tasty.

Would this man see through him? Would the _science of deduction_ see that he was pretending to be gay or would this self-purported genius see only the surface after all?

Sherlock.

Holmes.

He'll turn out to be just as stupid as the rest of them.

The shoes were perfect now. He positioned himself and snapped a photo with his phone. The lovely pink phone was already in place. The blonde's blog was far more interesting than Molly's.

He would establish himself as a bomber. If Sherlock Holmes was as smart as he fancied himself to be, he'd worry about a bomb when he found these shoes.

A trick of the trainers, off-centered in the room beneath him.

Right below him.

He would watch through the window. He would send the first pip and wait for _him_ to come. To come _home_! He would watch through the window…

Would Sherlock Holmes slink? Would he creep closer to the shoes? Would he reach out to them?

Of course he would.

Sherlock

Holmes

was

curious.

And when he did, when Sherlock Holmes moved close to the shoes…he would count to three one thousand…and _that's_ when he will call.

Oh, yes. Delicious.

He felt giddy at the thought. All the thoughts. All the pieces. All the little details that made it _interesting_.

He could hear them, up there. Just upstairs.

Sherlock.

Holmes.

And his little friend.

Oh, the things he had planned for the blonde flatmate.

He could hear them up there…

The blonde was hungry.

Sherlock was bored.

They were fighting again.

He could run upstairs. Right now. Introduce himself. Or he could wait for them to fall asleep. He could watch them, like he watched Molly hours after she'd seen him to the door. They'd never hear him. He could walk right up to them, stand over them. Watch them breathe. Did Sherlock Holmes snore? He could leave a note.

Oh, but the shoes were the note. The painting was up for sale. The blood was in the car…

He couldn't jump the gun – that would spoil the game.

That wouldn't do at all.

Someone was going up the stairs. It was the landlady. He ducked back.

Someone was coming down the stairs. Was it _him_? He couldn't resist a peek. Leaning off the wall of the darkened staircase, he risked exposure.

Oh, look! The blonde was stomping down the stairs; his leg seemed all healed now.

It wasn't when he was investigating the murders he let his taxi driver commit. Investigating. Ha! He followed Sherlock Holmes around like a limping girl Friday. Even Toby didn't follow Molly around like that.

Sherlock.

Holmes.

He survived the deadly driver and even General Shan.

She was stupid, too, like all the rest. Thinking the blonde was Him? He killed her for that alone.

The blonde was angry. Huffing. He slammed the door! What had the naughty Sherlock Holmes done to him?

He could pop upstairs and find out.

Just a few steps, up he goes. The landlady was with him. That was unfortunate but easily dealt with.

No.

He had to go.

The bomb was set to go off. It wouldn't hurt anyone, probably. It wouldn't hurt Sherlock Holmes. It wouldn't even disrupt the perfectly placed shoes, the room on the other side of the coming blast.

It would, however, get his attention.

He could just take a quick peek. Oh! The door was wide open…what could a glance hurt?

There he was! At the window. In his robe, no less. He was complaining about the peace of the night.

Don't worry, my dear Sherlock - that will change soon.

Oops, a little too soon.

He descended the stairs.

Quiet as the mouse Molly said she became when Sherlock Holmes entered a room.

He knew his prey. Getting to know them was an art. Getting inside their heads was an art. Blowing things up was…well, that was just plain fun.

He made his way outside, the car picked him up. One of his best snipers tapped his watch in the back seat. "We were getting worried about you, Sir."

The driver looked back as they sped away. "About to send in an extraction team."

He snickered at them. "You were worried about me."

Melvin snickered right back, before turning his attention back to the road. "You are the one that signs the checks. Well…figuratively speaking."

He liked them. He had to. He killed or jailed the others. He needed a team he could rely on. Things were about to get dangerous. He needed to be protected. He needed to act without reservation in the upcoming days – assuming Sherlock Holmes was as promising as he hoped.

"Sir, I could have placed the shoes for you. I'd have been in and out in under four minutes."

"Uh-huh." They were used to doing the leg work. The boring bits. He didn't like to get his hands dirty but then there were days like this. This had to be handled _personally_. This was fun.

Sherlock.

Holmes.

"I would have, Sir. Do you doubt my ability?"

"I know you would have, Arnold. That's why _I_ went. You're an excellent marksman and I wouldn't trade you for a car made of gold but you have no art in your soul."

"Art? I thought that was later in the plan, Sir."

"You're an idiot," Melvin said under his breath.

"It's all about the subtle art." An explosion ripped through the air behind them. A smirk twisted his lips; he couldn't help it. He never could. "It's all about…the great game."


End file.
